Never have I seen such passion. In her rage and her sorrow she is wildly beautiful, beating the air like a puerto-rican, and sparks fly off her aura as she stands there shouting and weeping, dressed in tiny tank top and hot pants and four inch whore boots. You can hear her cry of love and hate and hurt three blocks away, she's electrified, she's a woman scorned, she's a dynamo angstrom solar flare of a wild crazy bitch! A human torch!
Never have I seen such passion in a Chinese, and from my barstool I have watched her wail for an hour at least, not knowing that she's been crying all the while and letting the tears fall as they may, all over her black sequined slut halter and down her tortured fine face onto the sidewalk; guys walking past cast wary glances at the tall beautiful Chinygirl as she raves, rages, even jumps up and down in a little heartbreak hop.
I get up, pay, walk casually down to where she's standing and gesticulating, and I see right away that she's weeping like a girl child whose friends are being cruel to her, and my heart breaks again at the queasy spectacle of Night Town its zoo smell of cunt and smoke and musk.
Naem is a kind of friend. I have short-timed her and she was fine, but didn't live up to the Dragon Squeeze fantasy I had built up around her. She's a Kuo Min Tang brat, scion of renegade opium warlords in the far north, and once she laughed out loud when I saw a group of quizzical Chinese tourists pass by the Zillion bar where she sells herself for $12 US, of which she gets to keep half, and I said, --Ni hao ma? And Naem looked at me with surprise and sudden affection.
So now the phone hysteria is finished, and Naem holds her head high and proud, walks on her tall shoes back to the bar and scores a grinning German within seconds.
© ganesh. All rights reserved by the author.
Ganesh was the fictional name of a man who wrote wonderful moody stories of his times in Southeast Asia. It was rumored he was a professional writer on assignment to Asia. He is said to have died a few years ago.